Bouquet
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: "A weed is no more than a flower in disguise, which is seen through at once, if love give a man eyes." -James Russell Lowell. -Ronald/girls, Ronald/Finny, Will/Grelle. Part of the "Bicentennial" universe.-


**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Author's Note: **DAMMIT HANNAH. XD;

**Warnings:** Ronald/lots of random girls, Ronald/Finny, Will/Grelle. Quick writing, fail editing. Part of the "Bicentennial" series ("Bicentennial," "Inevitable," "Five Thousand," "Timetable," "Coffee Break," "Cats and Dogs," "Surely Someday," "Turn," and "Hitches and Knots"). Spans the entire course of the series, ending just prior to "Hitches and Knots;" references stories that, sadly, I haven't had a chance to write yet. XD; Brief shout-out to the manga; vaguest of vague shot-outs to 12gatsunohime's "Killing Time." _**Links to all of these stories can be found on my bio page.**_

**XXX**

**Bouquet**

**XXX**

**Celosia**

It's the touch of her hair that I most remember— shifting through my fingers, drumming rhythmically against her back. The way the auburn threads glinted burgundy in the sunlight, woven into plaits, with paintbrush tufts of silk peeking out from beneath twin ribbons. Maybe that's why I found the idea of dipping her braids in colored ink so poetic.

She was my first crush. I wonder what her name was.

**Moss Rose**

I hadn't paid her much mind, to be honest. She was short and quiet, plain and frumpy— and while I was young, I wasn't naive. I knew what a 'ten' was, and I knew I deserved one. I also knew that she didn't make the grade. But that night was Christmas Eve, and I've always been the giving sort; that year, I gave her my first kiss. And no, she wasn't usually much of a looker… But when she flushed beneath the mistletoe, the whole world suddenly seemed more… colorful. And not just because of the classroom decorations.

**Petunia**

Everyone wanted her. And everyone could have her, so long as they waited in line. I had my turn in the principal's office, a five-minute-fling that began when he stormed off to find new detention slips. She licked her lips, her ringlets bounced; she slipped her number into my pocket even as she rode my hips. And when the principal returned, she held the door and smiled, readjusting the indigo frames of her glasses. He complimented her on her skills.

I quietly did the same.

**Daisy**

Adolescence is a time of experimentation, discovery. I did a great deal of both: with tongue and teeth and wandering hands, mapping uncharted, but familiar territory on conquest after conquest. Pretty and cheap, dime-a-dozen girlfriends: white innocence that lasted just as long as childhood rhymes.

Then one of us would leave the other in petals on the floor.

**Violet**

She was wild and delicate, complicated and simple: a tiny speck of serenity in a foreign, frightening world of adult decisions and new expectations. A gentle word here, a lingering kiss there… But as I became more familiar with the path I now traveled, I lost my appreciation for that which had once fascinated me. Comforted me. And by the time I remembered to stop and smell the flowers, she had already wilted.

**Impatients**

We barely made it to the Scythe Storage Room before she was upon me, grinding low, low, low and leading my thoughts down with her. The next morning, we shared an awkward breakfast and a cordial goodbye.

**Columbine**

He— no, she— was the strangest thing I'd ever met, body and image distorted and twisted into a single, bright flame of passion, red as blood. I hated and I loved her; I coddled and I worshiped. For though there was no denying that she was some kind of crazy, there was a demented _wisdom_ in her insanity that I couldn't help but respect. So when she threw up her arms and demanded, "well, _yes_—but who are you _living _for?" I actually spared a moment to wonder.

"_Me_, I guess?"

I immediately wandered off to my next fling.

**Hydrangea**

She was a sweet-scented fancy, a daydream, a human. I never should have spoken to her—not when I knew first-hand what sunrise would bring. But as her lilting laugh filled the square, I couldn't help it; I slid a ring on her finger, then slid it off of her corpse.

**Vinca**

Looks doesn't often last beyond the grave; a few thousand stamps and the roar of a lawnmower, and the faces of yesterdays' trappings disappear in the murky depths of memory.

**Lily**

I guess, as a grim reaper, it's weird to say that I don't believe in fairies—especially when I've met so many creatures that don't exist. But I don't, and I likely never will, unless I someday meet one. And even then, I rather doubt that they could be more enchanting than she was: willowy, graceful, and pale, with eyes that glittered like sapphires and lips as pink as coral. I flirted and flattered and tried to make it work, but still, like a pixie, she vanished.

**Diamond Frost**

Siberia was freezing, but her body was warm: tangled in limbs and furs before a roaring fire, gasping for breath as the heat became unbearable. And that seemed appropriate, because this felt like hell.

**Lilac**

Since I was in the area, I helped her (she really was a 'her,' now) and her stoic husband unload and unpack, sort and settle. Their new house was almost disgustingly picturesque, down to the white picket fence in the front. When we took a break from boxes, she made us lemonade, and decorated the table at which we sat with freshly-cut blossoms. Though her husband did not smile (ever, really), he did touch one of the flowers… then placed it behind her ear with a look that might even be described as affectionate.

I joked that I felt sick when I watched them kissed. But it wasn't a joke.

_Who are you living for? _

**Black-Eyed Susan**

She was nice. She was nicer. Every _inch_of that one was fine. Dime-a-dozen girlfriends became $50-an-hour whores, and though the petals were different colors, they fell just the same. That was okay, though, so long as they fell without sound. Or price. Which they did, 'cause they never charged me. They loved me. Everyone loved me. And I loved them.

I think.

**Chrysanthemum**

In this line of work, you wind up going to a lot of funerals. So yeah, I knew what those blooms symbolized, even if I wasn't in the East. And at the time I found it funny, since I was in the devil's house, and they'd been set atop my usual seat upon the counter. As I munched on leftovers, I wondered if the demon had placed them there as a warning, and was all prepared to ask him when the front door flew open—

But someone else walked through it.

Arms full of more foliage, the green-eyed stranger blinked at me owlishly.

He then politely requested that I leave, if I was a thief.

**Daffodil**

In the spring, a young man's fancies turn to the fairer sex. I knew I was a death god, but wasn't I still a man? It was a thought to chew on when the girl at the bar grinned, and I found myself reminded of another short-haired blondie.

**Dandelion**

I didn't understand why I felt guilty when I kissed her— it wasn't like I was cheating on anyone. Not really. It had been the alcohol, then. Just like it was the alcohol, now. But with each smudge of scarlet lipstick, I heard her voice in my head; with every bump and grind of her body, I remembered the feel of his own. And though my head felt scrambled and my emotions all tangled, I couldn't shake the nagging sensation that I was allowing weeds to choke something beautiful.

**Marigold**

I sat with him outside. When he asked why, I lied and told him it was because I was bored. And he smiled, and talked of nothing, and gingerly cared for his tiny plot… but he never seemed to know just what was best for it.

"Blondie, you've gotta pull up those thistles and grasses if you don't wanna kill your precious flowers," I drawled, hiding beneath the shade of a nearby oak tree. Across the lawn, kneeling beside his patch, he responded with a sheepish laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck and smearing mud all over himself. Even still, he looked like sunshine.

"I know that in theory," he confessed with an endearingly embarrassed shrug, "but I can't seem to bring myself to do it in practice. After all, weeds are plants, too— what right do I have to cut them down? It doesn't seem fair to pick on them just 'cause they're stronger…" His voice trailed off, much like his thoughts.

I grunted. "You almost sound as if you like 'em more than those marigolds you worked so hard on," I commented wryly, and couldn't keep from snorting when he spun eagerly to face me, fists clenched and ready to punch the air.

"I don't like them _more_, but I do like them a lot!" he cheered, beaming down at all of the growing greenery in his garden. "Weeds are tough. They know how to persevere— just like all of us, Mr. Ronald. Just like me. And just like you."

He giggled. I cleared my throat and refused to blush. "Dunno if I like being compared to a weed," I grumbled, readjusting my arms behind my head and crossing my legs as I leaned back against the trunk of the tree. High above, millions of feathery leaves were waving, like the souls of girls bidding a lover farewell. I sighed. "Chicks don't much care for weeds, you know?"

A soft sound of agreement— far closer than I'd been expecting. I glanced up to find him looming over me, legs splayed to straddle my own. Still wearing that pretty smile, he tilted his golden head and grinned… And even though we were both in shadows now, I suddenly felt very warm all over. "Well, maybe girls don't," Finny acceded, lacing slender fingers behind his lithe back. "But I love them."

A wind rushed though; the leaf-girls sang.

I didn't hear a note of it.

"…I'm pretty fond of 'em, too."

**XXX**


End file.
